


The real Night Manager

by Turkington82



Category: British Actor RPF
Genre: British, Couple, Dancing, F/M, Humour, Love, Nerdy Tom, Oral Sex, Realistic, Sexy, Slow Burn, Some angst, The Night Manager - Freeform, Wall Sex, awards ceremony, nerdy, snake hips
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-08
Updated: 2016-08-31
Packaged: 2018-06-07 01:12:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6779014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Turkington82/pseuds/Turkington82
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You work on the PR team for a major hotel group based in London. Your team regularly handles press junkets and film requests due to your hotel'sprime central locations. The BBC are planning a follow up to the immensely successful "The Night Manager" and are scouting a location with views of the Thames for a 2 day shoot. You get the call. Your pretty crap year suddenly takes a major turn for the better - especially when the cast listing comes through. Your heart has been damaged and bruised before and you're reluctant to get involved with anything or anyone this complicated and with such a crazy lifestyle - and yet, when you finally meet the show's main draw, it's clear things are about to get a little nuts. Slow, slow, slow burn but it will be sooo worth it - promise!!!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The call.

**Author's Note:**

> Set in the real world, post- Night Manager. Set as much as possible in factual realities - names have been changed to protect identities and brands :) It will be slow burn, but yes it will be Mature later on!

It’s been 10 months.

10 months since your heart got stomped on. Shat on. Minced like liver and spread on the bitter toast of breakup, shithole hell. 

10 months since you realised that you’d given, and exhausted your all - your trust, your faith, your positivity, your future and had received nothing but hurt in return.  
“Hi doom and gloom. Meet your new best friend – Elsa. Newcomer to Singledom. Population 1. Me.”

The first 5 months were a bitter mess of highs, lows, patheticness, euphoria and generally many, many nights devouring Chinese take-aways, red wine and Netflix box sets like a walking humanitarian pity project. 

Gushing tears, snotty tissues and 2am phone calls to your best friend Caroline. Comfort-zone retreats to your Mum’s house to be fed homemade stews and spoiled with chocolate and bottomless pots of tea. 

Ballooning weight, “yoga pants” that hadn’t seen, let alone smelt, a yoga mat since the dinosaur extinction and hideous rebound-driven experiments with dating apps ensued, resulting in even further depths of loneliness being plumbed.

In short? Shit.

6 months in, you plonked yourself on the scales in the bathroom of your new, suddenly tiny, studio flat and had a small heart attack. That and the zip on your favourite dress breaking as you zipped it up and the realisation that your Spotify “public” soundtrack had been permanently stuck on the Bridget Jones OST playlist since that fateful dumping day in April – something snapped. Poignant, desperate, defiant. Something HAD to change.

In short: there were no more self-help books, shoulders to cry on and hideous plus-sized pyjama bottoms left in the world that were going to make you feel good. It was time to cut the mourning short, scrape the self-pity off the floor and get out into the world.

You ditched the depressing, “newly-single” micro-studio in Croydon (Croydon? Where dreams go to die…) to immediately move into a Herne Hill flatshare in South London with 3 flatmates. 

Why the hell not? All of London is suffering the housing crisis and flat-sharing now mainly involves sane, fun, lovely 30-somethings all struggling to understand how it came to this.

You buy a bike and join a gym. Not exactly Psycle, but a start, and a quick way to zip round the capital. You sign up to classes in things you had always loved: acting, life drawing, wine tasting and even swing -dancing – holding on to the romantic ideal that somewhere out there was your perfect dance partner, as desperately excited about Cab Calloway and Ella Fitzgerald as you are. 

You drew up the bucket list. You started ticking it off...

It was on May 4th that you got the call that flipped the year on its head.

You’d been working in the same office for 4 years. Public relations for an international hotel group, part of a fantastic team of – slightly bonkers – but incredibly loyal and sweet people in trendy Marylebone. As part of the job, your team filtered dozens of calls a month from film and tv crews wanting to film at your hotels – mainly due to their locations along the South Bank of London – with incredible views across the Thames. Most of the time it was press junkets and fashion shoots – the hotel teams dealt with the operations, we managed the legal paperwork and liaised with the production for PR ops. They wanted the city skyline backdrop and complete discretion, we wanted the money and exposure.

Every once in a while it got exciting. We had had a few B-list stars hanging out doing interviews in our penthouse suites, and even the occasional cable series needing a central London location that looked like a cool City office or law firm. Mostly it was filler scenes or skyline shots.

May 4th your phone rang. You normally didn’t handle filming requests but in that particular week the rest of your team were over in the Netherlands at the company’s head office for a series of new business brainstorm meetings and you were manning the fort on London.

“Hello, Elsa Johnson, PT Hotels International, how may I help?”

“Hi, Elsa – my name is Grant, calling from Fortune Productions – we’re based in Soho and working on a new feature drama for the BBC – we wanted to check about filming a couple of scenes and some filler shots in one of your Thames-front hotels in June? Who should we speak to to get a recce booked in?”

You raised an eyebrow. No doubt the usual tiny agency, no budget, tons of paperwork, plenty of time wasting and a full 10 seconds of on screen time in a tiny TV show, except you felt like you knew the name Fortune… You whizzed over the filming request form and your contact details.

Ten minutes later the filming request form pinged back and your afternoon took on a whole new level of exciting.

PT Hotels International – formal request for filming:

CONFIDENTIAL

Programme details: BBC 2 – Drama Series – Working Title: Renegade

Crew size and details: Cast x 3 actors, 2 x cameras, 1 x lighting, 1 x sound boom mic, 3 x crew assistance – Director crew – x 4 

Filming location requirements: 2 x Penthouse suites, 3 room nights, adjoining where available – either of the top 2 floors – for filming

2 hours filming of hotel exterior and public concourse outside lobby – can be done overnight for minimal guest disruption

Cast requirements:

2 x Executive Suites for main cast members:  
• Tom Hiddleston  
• Adam Kerwhitt

Exclusive access to the floor and use of service lift for nighttime moving of equipment and privacy

Security to be provided by the hotel if available

Hotel assistance to be available 24/7 for duration of filming.  
Budget - £25,000  
Contra - PT Hotels International named and credited in final credits, on screen mention, exposure of PT hotel logo during series airing.

Note – project is currently 100% confidential, actors on project not yet publicised – need for extreme privacy and confidentiality – NDAs to follow shortly.  
Primary Contact – Grant Jones – Fortune Productions grant.jones@fortuneproductions.co.uk

You did a small double take...

Re-Read...

TOM. HIDDLESTON.

Well! Move over Z-list hangers-on, we have ourselves a genuine ACTOR!

You did a small, hopefully unnoticed double take in the office and a huge warm grin spread across your face. No. Bloody. Way. 4 years of dealing with 2-bit, egomaniacal celebs and reality trash, crap car adverts and ageing rock star junkets and suddenly its Bingo Big Time!

Budget of £25,000, two major Brit actors, BBC cachet and massive brand exposure on prime time tv? There was no way PT was turning this project down and as the girl who had managed the call, it was technically your gig – so guess who you were going to volunteer to be the “full-time assistant” on the ground?

You called your boss in Amsterdam to give her the low down. Two minutes was all it took to get confirmation to proceed. You called Grant Jones at Fortune to give him the good news and set dates and diaries in order.

BY the end of the day the crew were booked in, legal docs were drawn up and you were all booked in for a recce meeting and face to face intro with the film team a week later.

Which gave you exactly 7 days to completely freak out.


	2. Penthouse Planning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A recce is booked, the film location crew arrive at your riverside hotel to get the tour. A date is set. Lunch with two of Britain's hottest actors is planned....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I was going to wait til the weekend for the next chapter, but I couldn't actually believe people had read number 1 so quickly and the very sweet comments had me inspired! Like I said, slow burn... but promise Tom is in the next chapter! Again, trying to make the situation / plot as realistic as it can be - with a smattering of added fangirling, of course ;)

 

**CHAPTER 2**

The 11th May seemed to drag round so slowly you began to imagine all the situations of doom that might befall the project. World War 3, a fire disaster, sleeping through your alarm on the day of the recce, having some rubbish intern pick up the project, cock it up and leave you looking like an idiot and the production company running to the hills…

None of these things happened. You basically didn’t sleep a wink the night before the recce – so when your alarm did finally ring you had to drag yourself into a cold shower and slap on every level of concealer under your eyes to not look like an extra on Crimson Peak.

Any semblance of forward planning fell by the wayside as you suddenly hated the outfit you’d picked, spilled coffee on the second choice, ended up late getting round to the hair straighteners and styling and nearly missed your bus.

As you approached the South Bank and the bus pulled up just shy of PT Riverside Hotel’s entrance you took a 3 minute pause to gather your thoughts. You looked at your reflection in the ground floor café windows.

Hair glossy straight and auburn (bar random stray quiff at the back?!), big – slightly bleary this morning – green eyes but still sparkling with a slight whiff of mischief, just shy of 5”5 – you had slung on a plain black 60s cut shift dress and chunky grey ankle boots with a zebra striped scarf – somewhere between “smart casual” / “messed up original outfit” and “nonchalantly cool”. Or something…

You ordered a coffee to go from your friend Matteo the barista – who thankfully was always happy to keep the Java flowing free for early morning meetings at the hotel. You slid through the main entrance and strode in brimming with confidence.

By the penthouse check-in stood a tall guy in trendy suit jacket and jeans and a younger looking girl – all big nerd glasses, big hair and achingly cool “active wear” sipping on a horrible looking green juice and sporting a massive messenger bag.

Your earlier Linkedin stalking detected that the tallest – with his dishevelled professor look and smattering of trendy stubble, tailored blazer, jeans and VANS sneakers was Grant, the location scout and project manager. He was all smiles as he introduced Alice his PA / general runner i.e. – trot along to recces, look gorgeous, drink kale soup and get paid.

“Elsa, hi – pleased to meet you. The hotel is FAB – just the location we need. Can’t believe you have the penthouses free on our filming dates. Leanne (the show’s Director) is going to love it!”

You shook everyone’s hand and immediately got caught up in the enthusiasm.

“Thanks! Let’s get you guys upstairs for a proper site visit, then I can get our GM and events team to show you the public areas and events spaces where we usually set up crew centres and storage.... – you paused - “soooooo, you smiled, eyeing Grant with a curious grin as you piled into the lift by the concierge desk – “we’ve signed the NDA now, can you let me know what it’s all about? We all loved Scorpion Tales in the office!”

Scorpion Tales was a mini 3-part series Leanne Jones had recently directed for the BBC which had scooped a BAFTA just a week beforehand. Starring Ben Whishaw it had been buzzed about by every critic in town and pretty much the whole office was keen for something new to fill the sudden gaping hole in Sunday night television…

“Ha – well, yeah – it’s proving a nightmare to beat off the celeb bloggers at the moment. Everyone knows she’s got a project in the pipeline but keeping a lid on Tom and Adam being cast is quite the challenge! We usually wait until post-production before we start feeding the media monster, otherwise the public get bored with the waiting! But given the attention on those two right now, it’s a ‘mare!”

Basically, think Homeland meets The Bridge – Scandi-style slow burn, it’s all very much about the characters wrestling with their own demons and lots of sweeping landscape shots, but centres around a counter-espionage story where two old school friends find they are suddenly spying on each other as part of an undercover investigation…

Your penthouse is likely going to double up as a safe-haven retreat for Tom’s character….” He trailed off.

The door pinged and you walked straight into the door of Suite 2445 – the 4-bedroom penthouse apartment with balcony. The view swept right around, taking in Tower Bridge all the way along to the London Eye

“…..yeeeeeeeeeeah….Grant grinned like a school boy…. Yes! We are definitely going to need this! No other hotel like it really for us!”

He started running around with a camera, snapping all angles and making notes in a little Moleskine. You showed them upstairs and took them out on the balcony, name dropping any other celeb you could think of that had been filmed in this very suite.

At that moment Big Ben bonged in the background and Alice’s phone rang.

“Hiya, yeah, Luke – hey yeah we’re literally just doing the recce now. Yup, looks bloody amazing. View is killer – will send you shots on whatsapp. Think this would be great for that GQ shoot. You’ll need to come and see it – bring Tom.”

The T word. You stopped listening to Grant and suddenly paid great interest in Alice and her giant smartphone of wonder.

“Tom… ? As in…”

“Yeah, that was Luke – Tom’s publicist. He figured we would probably agree to the location anyway and he’s desperate to get a date locked in with GQ for an winter fashion special to coincide with the start of the media campaign, best would be to shoot some stills here on location – the suite is so glam and the view is unbeatable. The plan would be to announce the new show in about November so need to lock GQ in now…”

“…and they will need to come and check it out, right?” you almost grimaced in silent excitement… _Nonchalant, nonchalant, Elsa – no sweat, just whatever…. Just Tom Hiddleston lounging around the £3,000 a night room of your hotel company in tailoring. Nothing interesting here…._

“Yep. Would be great if you can show them around – much easier to have one contact person. So, yeah – we def want to book this”.

You looked dumbfounded for long enough that Grant had to nearly wave in your face to get your attention. You flitted straight back to pro-mode, all smiles and hand thrust out for a shake.

“Confirmed! Well, let me finish the grand tour, then we can sit down and chat schedules over coffee in the Executive Lounge.”

The rest of the afternoon flew past. Grant and Alice did the full tour, asked a million questions about security, risk assessments, paperwork, the usual. They loved the Spa and the cocktail bar – which had a semi-private club lounge at the back for events and VIP parties, overlooking the river.

By 5 pm you had coordinated diaries and worked out a general schedule for the Meetings and Events team to work to and completed all the paperwork.

By 6 pm, you were on the phone to the infamous Luke – Tom’s publicist, trying not to make every laugh out of your mouth sound like a hysterical horse.

“Lunch tomorrow? Yes – erm, this can be arranged, absolutely. We – ah, have a great French restaurant on the 13th floor – I can set up a private table at the back and do a recce after?” – _dry mouth, dry throat, horrendous need for water…_

“Fab, thanks Elsa, Tom will want to get the lay of the space as will I – then we can chat protocols as well – got to keep a tight lid on either of these guys being there. I know clients of mine have worked with your team before and your reputation for discretion is excellent. So… see you at 1pm!”

“Yes – you practically squeak – _Jesus girl, get a grip_ \- just have the driver pull into the service entrance on Launceston Slip road. Will get concierge to meet you there and bring you up in the service elevator. Hehee… ahem, yes. So, great. Lunch tomorrow.” Your palms were sweaty to the point you nearly dropped the phone as you heard your own bizarre nervous giggle.

Hopefully Luke hadn’t noticed.

_Epitomy of cool, Elsa…. Great stuff._

You hung up. Looked at your watch. Called your boss to give her a quick update and somehow floated home on the bus with limbs like jelly and a vague sense of impending terrifying, yet glorious panic.

This was happening. Your boring hotel PR job just went from handling shitty, two-bit travel bloggers who could barely write and dodging planning meetings with the corporate office team, to a lunch date with two of Britain’s hottest property actors and the publicist with the most enviable Instagram follow-list of all time.

You smiled at yourself as you got through your front door. This is what all the hard work was for. This was the dream. This is the sort of thing your shitty ex used to whine at you about, anytime you did anything successful or exciting.

Well fuck you, shitty past. You were going to ace this project. And you were going to have a shitload of fun doing it too – and who more exciting to work alongside than the singularly handsome and stupidly talented Tom Hiddleston!

12 hours to go… Only one more Night to Manage…


	3. Lunch Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we finally meet Tom. And enjoy chocolate cake and flowers.

All the planning in the world. You could have scheduled 10 alarm clocks. But no – naturally – on the biggest day of your career to date OF COURSE you slept through your phone alarm. And OF COURSE your bedside table radio alarm (back up!) died in the night.

Lunch was at 1pm. Your plan to get up at 6 to give yourself at least 2 hours to look like something approaching a well put together Manager oozing professionalism before cramming in 4 hours of meetings ahead of your lunch date flew out the window. Along with your sanity.

Your team expected you in at 9. It was pushing 8.45 when your eyes opened.

You threw on the emerald green slip dress and nude heels you’d laid out the night before, nearly tripping over your hairdryer in the process. You answered four emails, called your team with an obviously invented excuse whilst applying mascara and calling an Uber – there was no way the bus was your fastest option. Lippy, blush, tangle-teeze, sunnies. Everything was hurled into your largest shoulder bag and you dashed out the door.

_Smooth Elsa – under control. If control involves leaving your crap all over the place and looking like a deer in headlights._

Your meetings went in a blur. Luke called at 12 to confirm they were on their way. Your stomach plummeted to the ground floor and back up again and your appetite with it. Your team appeared not to have noticed, or they were exceptionally kind.

At 12.30 you headed out to catch a cab and make your way to the Riverside Hotel.

“Babe, you look gorgeous. Seriously. You can handle this and then some. It’s just a straight up film planning meeting – you’ve done them before. So what who’s in it – just have fun with it! This looks GREAT on your CV” – Ah, Caroline – your closest confidente in the office and good friend. She pushed you into the cab then popped her head over the window

“Obvs call me AS SOON as you are done – there is a bottle of fizz with your name on it at Duke’s later!” – referencing your favourite after-work hang-out.

You sped off, grinning.

 

***

You arrived at the Riverside and ordered the cab to drop you round the back. A last minute check in the rear view mirror was all you could manage before you spotted two very tall men at the back of the loading bay by the lift, both in immaculate casual suits, standing beside Mirko, the day concierge.

You got out the cab, adjusted your jacket a bit and broke into a huge smile – if nothing else but to mask the excitement.

“Hi – thanks for waiting, I hope you weren’t here long already” you reached out to Luke for a handshake as you approached – looking anywhere but at Tom.

Luke stepped forward, a slight, gangly, fresh-faced 30 year old – all legs and Paul Smith glasses. Sharp suited and with a look of no-fuss precision he clasped your hand.

“Elsa, Luke. Great to meet you – we got here early, traffic was oddly quiet for central London. Let me introduce Tom.

You look up and turn to face him. Looking up being the operative word since you stand at 5”6 only in heels. Grey flannel suit, perfectly fitted of course, black Loakes, white shirt and a skinny black tie. You look at his face and the eyes simply pop at you. A completely disarming look, warm smile, liquid blue eyes, he holds a hand out and shakes yours firmly before you even realise he is there.

“Hi, really lovely to meet you. I’m Tom.” – The killer smile. Twinkly eyes. In your case increasingly sweaty palms…

“Hi – well, welcome to the Riverside! I hope you’re both hungry, Chef will have wanted to pull out all the stops” – you grin as Tom lets you pass first into the lift, getting in last as Mirko waves you on your way.

These lifts are usually pretty cramped, but today it felt like a stifling jungle the size of a tin can. You were wedged between Luke and Tom, who wore a faint but discernible cologne – musky, fresh, utterly delicious. You thanked the powers above that you were cramped so that your knees didn’t have a chance to buckle.

“So, this sounds like a very exciting project. It’s nice to have you back on home soil again” – _Oh god, do I sound like a stalky fan girl? You look at the floor._

“Yes – eheh, thanks, that’s very kind. I love being back in London – it’s been months, literally. The script is really fantastic, I couldn’t let it slip. I’m afraid though, that there isn’t too much more I can say at the moment. I hear this place has an incredible view, you must enjoy working here?”

You look at him straight in the eye. He looks right back, the crinkle at the corner of his eyes making it less intimidating than you imagined.

“Well, my office is somewhat less glamorous, we’re in a tiny back street in Marylebone – but yes, I make as many excuses to come and hang out here as I can.”

You arrive at the top, the door opens and immediately the restaurant manager meets you and whisks you off down to the back of the restaurant, right by the viewing windows, where a small table has been put up behind a semi-closed screen.

“Hope this is private enough for you gentlemen?” You ask.

“This is perfect, Elsa, thanks. Knew you would have it sorted! Luke smiles.

Tom meanwhile has strolled over to the windows – you can’t help but admire him from the table. His legs go on forever, his languid body moves like a dream in the suit. His hair, with the sun glinting off it is mussed and curly and golden, with his Night Manager side crop. The face is clean shaven. He looks like he’s no doubt heading to some cool event after.

He turns and offers a massive grin. In your direction.

“Wow. Ah, this view is amazing. Isn’t London the best city in the world?” He jaunts back to the table and sits down. Looking straight at you as if for confirmation.

“I couldn’t agree more. And this has to be my favourite part of it. You wave in the direction of the Southbank. Everything’s here, the National Theatre, the BFI, the Globe. They have Udderbelly on at the moment, the comedy festival. It’s just endlessly buzzing.”

_Christ, I am wittering on, no one gives a shit. I am here to manage paperwork and calendars._ You groan inwardly and look at the floor.

Luke is perusing menus and chatting to the restaurant manager about specials.

To your surprise Tom keeps chatting on.

“Yes, I have a couple of friends performing at Udderbelly – old RADA mates. I haven’t been but I really should make the effort while I’m here. If there’s time during filming. Time is so precious now!”

You chat more about some of the events going on at various theatres around London. Naturally Tom knows someone involved in almost anything – but it doesn’t come across as name dropping, if anything there is a small tinge of sadness in the tone that his workload and insane work ethic means he often has to sacrifice going to see some of his friends performing or enjoy all the things London has to offer.

Luke is charming, but keeps quite quiet during lunch, getting up every 20 minutes to take a call leaving you and Tom deep in discussion as you get stuck into a gooey Belgian chocolate Opera cake.

He is effortless to talk to – naturally polite and charming and inquisitive. Despite your initial racing heartbeat and nerves, you find him a calming presence. You barely even realise 1 ½ hours have gone by.

“Bloody hell, this cake is ridiculously delicious.” Tom exclaims – giving you a mischievous side grin.

“Yeah, Chef Benoit spoils us. Hence my making many, many excuses to come here.”

He notices you have none left but he still has half a slice. _Way to go face-stuffer!_

“Want some more? You can share mine” – he slides his plate over. His face is like a four year old on Christmas morning. You laugh.

“I couldn’t possibly deprive you of any more – you look like Charlie getting the golden ticket to the chocolate factory”.

“Ehehehe, now THAT would be amazing.” – That laugh! He smiles at you again. You feel a blush come on and look away, thankful that Luke is there wrapping things up on his call and indicating it is time to move on.

At this point you will hand over to the Meetings & Events team to do the room recce and head back to the office. Which is probably where the moment ends – so you make the most of your last few minutes chatting to Tom, who shakes your hand again and thanks you profusely for lunch.

“Listen, he suddenly says as he has your hand in a grip – I can’t make it, but since you appreciate a good comedy, let me get you a couple of tickets to Udderbelly? Luke, can we sort something for Elsa?”

You smile back at Tom – he is looking right at you.

“Oh, no need – really! That’s too kind”

“Seriously, it’s a pleasure. Call it a thank you for introducing me to the best chocolate cake I have ever eaten. I’ll get Luke to arrange it. Thanks again.”

“Yes, well – thank you. And I hope this afternoon goes well – and the shoot of course. I can’t wait to find out more when it is all done”

The restaurant manager calls down to M&E and has the two escorted out via the service lift again. You stay behind to make a couple of calls.

So that was it. Job done. Filming confirmed. Major coup. Kerching on your CV.

You smiled inwardly – you realised you hadn’t really talked once about the project or the filming. In fact, you had basically spent two hours yabbering on and on about London, cinema, theatre, books you’d been reading. Embarassing school stories. Best meals eaten. The recent mayoral elections.

And it had been easy. And effortless. And completely enjoyable.

More bizarrely, he appeared to enjoy it too. Like it was a breather for him.

AH, the famous “Hiddles” charm you muse to yourself. His reputation as a consummate professional and almost ridiculously polite, self-effacing guy precedes him wherever he goes. You shake off any notion that the lunch was anything more than the business transaction that it was. No wonder his career has gone ballistic. You sigh – well, at least you got to revel in the dazzle for a while, and you had nailed a massive deal for your team.

You trotted back downstairs and holed up with your laptop in a meeting room for the remainder of the afternoon, not wanting to hit the reality of your office again just yet.

 

At 5 pm you rang Caroline.

“Elsa!!! What the hell, you’ve not been answering your phone!”

“I was in one of the basement meeting rooms, no reception – what the hell is happening, you sound panicked?”

“Panicked? NO – but clearly YOUR lunch went well!”

“Well, you smile proudly at yourself, yeah you could say so. We nailed the filming AND got a photoshoot booked in, so feeling pretty pleased with myself. And as for the gossip, am heading over right now!

“Sod the photoshoot, Elsa. A courier arrived about 10 minutes ago for you. Massive bunch of flowers. Propser PR”

“Aw, that’s so kind. That’s Tom’s agency – how sweet of them

“Yeah, yeah listen, it’s not from Prosper. Well, the envelope was, but the note inside….

“You opened my mail? You laughed in mock offence

“Shush! The note inside is from Tom….

“Whaaa…?” You look dumbfounded. Flowers from Tom? Christ. Consummate gentleman to the point of ridiculous? “Must be Luke playing up the career reputation thing”

You hear Caroline adopt a faux-posh English villain accent

“Dear Elsa, thank you for your time today, it was truly a pleasure to just catch up on all things London – I rarely get the time. I might also need to kidnap Chef Benoit and make him my private cook. Perhaps you can help?

Please find enclosed a couple of tickets for Udderbelly. I hope you enjoy the show, my friend Alan is true comic genius.

Take care, Tom”

You don’t know what to say, so opt for a slack-jawed look of utter dumbfoundedness.

“Elsa?? Are you alive?”

“Er….. yeah! Ha! Hahah!” – hysterical laughter. Then you calm down.

“What kind of lunch did you have?”

  
“Oh God Caroline, seriously, it was nothing. He is polite – you know, that dying breed of actual gentlemen? No doubt the PR agency handled all of this, part of maintaining his reputation etc. We happened to have a lot of interests in common so conversation was easy. That’s about it. I have no doubt he is able to handle conversation with most people! Even lowly PRs like me. I really don’t think anything of it, Luke probably even wrote the note”

“Flowers, Elsa. Flowers. Handwritten note. Don’t be lame. It’s definitely from Tom. You must have done something right!”

“Yeah, I secured them a shoot venue. Caroline, please. Let’s go to the pub so I can regail you with juicy tidbits about the DELICIOUS suit he was wearing and so I can relive the last 2 hours one more time, and let’s leave it at that!”

“Hot foot it girl, I am desperate to get out of here”

You hang up. And nearly drop the phone. What the hell??? Is it normal? Flowers? After a business meeting? Even from a PR agency? You dismiss any thought. You grin. You dismiss them again. Either way, you’re not going to have any reason to see him again beyond perhaps arranging transport, in-room dining or equipment storage during filming. And even then, that’s the production crew.

You pack your phone away and head off to meet Caroline.

You don’t deny there’s a skip in your step. 


	4. The Comedy Channel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we experience many laughs, a surprise encounter and a welcome invitation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SLOW BURN PEOPLE!!!! We are working up to what may be a first date of sorts... I have never been to Udderelly, so excuse the creative license here.... :P

It had been a week since your close encounter of the Hiddles-kind.

That evening at Duke's pub you'd had to endure twenty million re-tellings of your lunch to Caroline, a word for word breakdown analysis of a two sentence gift card and the resulting increasing hysteria brought on by several too many glasses of Prosecco.

You'd elected for her to join you at Udderbelly, which you were off to tonight. You'd not heard anything further from Prosper, Luke, or of course Tom (why would he?!) since your lunch meeting, beyond a couple of perfunctory admin emails from a junior at the agency.

You had one date in the diary pencilled in to oversee the set up of the film equipment storage rooms and the penthouse ahead of shooting week, but frankly you knew already that was all technicians, builders and runners.

On the plus side, your boss had been raving non-stop about the film deal all week and you had free tickets to some excellent stand up. You'd met a movie hero in the flesh, not only enjoyed it thoroughly but came out of it unembarassed, unscathed - and not a little enamoured.

Life could have been worse.

You topped up your blush pink lipstick in the mirror of the office toilets, having changed out of your navy suit into something more casual for the comedy gig. Ripped skinny jeans, vintage Miles Davis t-shirt, black leather jacket. Hair up in a messy bun. You looked good. Clearly all the swooning had done you some favours!

Caroline poked her head through the door - "Hey, are we going any time soon? Thanks again to your boyfriend for the free tickets." It was almost getting boring, the endless jibes, but nonetheless you laughed and shooed her out the door. "Come on, and shut up already. Let's go and have some laughs, god know I need it after this week of endless meetings..."

Not too shabby tickets. On arrival at the Udderbelly festival tent you were whisked out of the standard queue and sent under a velvet cordon which led to a set of box seats inside. The view of the stage was excellent.

No sooner had you sat down than a member of the bar staff appeared behind you with a bottle of Champagne and two glasses. "For you, ladies, a note was left for us to serve you!" He smiled and poured two glasses.

Caroline just looked at you wide eyed and started laughing. "Is this real? You definitely need to handle ALL filming projects going forwards. Seriously. What did you do to this guy?"

You swat her on the arm, giggling. "You know the really sad thing? I did nothing. We're sitting here lording it over a glass of fizz at the theatre like it's our wedding anniversary. This is probably how he gets treated everywhere he bloody goes. He probably gets buckets of Champagne with his chicken nuggets at MacDonald's. He probably didn't even order it, I reckon they were expecting the Hiddlemeister to show up and there's no doubt a gaggle of Daily Mail paps hiding under our seats in case."

"Christ, they'll be so disappointed" Caroline laughs.

"Probably, but who cares. Here's to Mr Hiddleston. Bottom's up girl!"

The lights went down and the show started.

***

The show was hilarious. You'd never heard of Alan McCreedy before, but the guy was bonkers and the humour dry as a bone.

As interval lights came up the pair of you were still giggling when you noticed a shadow behind you as you were reaching for your handbag.

A slight cough alerted you to a presence.

"Ahem.. Excuse me for interrupting ladies, but I'm just heading down to McDonald's for some interval chicken nuggets, if you fancy a Champagne top up?"

You would have recognised that low timbered, impeccably polite voice anywhere and you nearly fell off your chair.

Caroline looked up like she'd seen a UFO and you slowly turned in your chair.

Tall, handsome and grinning like a cheeky schoolboy was 6"2 of utterly delicious. That damned Tom Hiddleston. Hands in the pockets of slim dark wash jeans, a petrol grey, thin polo shirt and baby soft dark leather jacket.

"Tom!?" You gasped, sounding less "surprised" and more like a dying camel reaching an oasis in the desert.

You cleared your throat. How long had he been there? Clearly since the show started? Cheeky little sod!

"Tom! You said again, this time smiling -pulling it together. You got up off your chair. He reached out a hand for a shake and to your complete surprise leaned in for a kiss on the cheek. Your knees almost faltered at the contact.

"Elsa, so sorry to drop in on you but I had to come and say hi. It's great to see you again, so glad you took up the offer!"

He looked over at Caroline and again reached out for a handshake.

You glanced at Caroline "Oh Tom, this is..."

"Caroline. Caroline. Yes. Hi. You are Tom. Tom Hiddleston. Caroline." She practically kung-fu chopped him with her outstretched hand "That's me! Ahem... Lovely. really, really, really lovely. To meet you. I mean." She looked like a startled hare and was almost gurgling. You gave her an awkward side glance - * _are you ok?!*  
_

You looked sheepishly back at Tom and raised an eyebrow at him conspiratorially. He looked back, suppressing a small smile. Caroline, clearly in need of controlling her emotions excused herself to go to the ladies. 

"So... anyway - how come you are here?" You asked, grateful for the clutch bag in your hand to fiddle with.

"Well, after we spoke last week I realised I was missing way too many of my friend's shows and Luke sort of pushed me to - well, basically get a life for a couple of evenings - ehehe - I mean he practically had me evicted from my own apartment so that I would get here. But I'm glad I did. Alan is great to watch and my mind could probably use a break. And it's a bonus to see you here too."

"Workaholic, huh?" You smile. "Well, we are certainly enjoying the show. Thanks again, really."

"My pleasure. And yes, I am a notorious perfectionist so have a tendency to really hole up if I am prepping for a role... he trailed off, looking almost embarrassed to be talking about himself.

"Drink?" He motioned towards the members bar which was exclusively for the box seat ticket holders. There were only a few people there. You nodded, not seeing any sign of Caroline.

You walked towards the bar, you felt a blush so kept your eyes as firmly ahead as you could, but could feel Tom's eyes on you.

"I... um, listen - thanks for the flowers and the tickets. Really wasn't necessary, but we are enjoying the show."

"Elsa, it was honestly just refreshing to have a bit of a grounding conversation and a reminder that I need to slow down a bit. I booked seats in the next box along, I can't help but admit I overheard you both talking when I came in. I certainly hope there aren't any paps under the seats, but it did make me laugh."

You cringed... and blushed even harder. Tom ordered you a glass of Prosecco and a bottle of Becks for himself.

"I'm here with Luke - he waved back towards the seats - he's on the phone, as usual... he's as bad as I am with work."

"I work with a few people like that. So... do you get to spend any family time when you're home now?"

"Yes, I have had a couple of days with my mother and my sisters will probably come and visit at some point, I'm here a good few months now for filming and it will be my mum's 70th in a few weeks so we're planning a nice get together. Then there's a lot of press junkets and things, still promoting The Night Manager now it is on DVD..." he trailed off.

"It sounds fun! I bet you're glad to get some down time though."

"Yes. And Wimbledon is coming up so I'll be around for that which I will follow obsessively."

You swap tennis notes - you being a big Djokovic fan, him more of a Murray supporter. He seems to relax as you start talking more about sports and London life and not his movies or work.

"So what about you, Elsa? Where's home?"

"Um... gosh, well.. home is a shared flat in Brixton with three other housemates." You look mortified. He no doubt lives in a palatial mansion house somewhere in North London. "I... well, I was living with someone - and it didn't work out. So back to sharing, which is a bit odd really. Not where I planned to be at this age." You go quiet and Tom looks at you with a sweet, concerned face. He touches your arm briefly, and turns you to face him.

"I'm sorry to hear that, truly, love is a fickle beast." He looks you right in the eye, serious for a moment, then grins again. "Well, if it didn't work out, without being presumptuous, it's definitely his loss."

You break into a smile and laugh. "That, is definitely spoken truth."

"Good. Much better to see you smile. Come on, I think it's curtains up again in a minute." As you walk back to your seats you spot Caroline already there, chatting to Luke who gives you a small, courteous wave. As she sees you approach, she gets the goggling look again and you almost laugh. You whisper over to Tom "I don't think she can handle you right now, please don't bedazzle her - I have to sit beside her for the next hour".

He giggles softly and blushes. "Ha, well... I had no intention of _bedazzling_ her. And believe me, I would happily trade seats with her to spare you any pain."

You gulp. Probably wasn't meant to sound the way it did. You laugh briefly and nervously. The lights flicker to indicate the start of the second half. "Enjoy the second half" you whisper "I'll go make sure Caroline isn't having a stroke" and the last you see of him is a glorious grin as the show begins again and he walks over to his box.

 

***

Mid-way through the second half of the show you feel your phone vibrate inside your jeans pocket. You hate being one of those people in the theatre with their phone on so you reached in with the intention of turning it off. You glanced down and saw a whatsapp you didn't recognise.

"Hate doing this, especially in Theatre. Tom here. Was going to ask if you wanted to join for drink after show, but spotted paps by entrance. Won't be fun so will have to dash via back exit and didn't want to appear rude. So asking now. Only if you want to?"

You want to melt into your seat. Why me? But then, you think. Why not me? You smile inwardly and text back.

"Wld love to. Where? Also hate doing this! We are terrible!"

"If you wait on slip road by Jubilee Gardens, will come round in car. We'll do a tour round the block then pick you up. Sorry it is so weird, just to avoid paps."

"I understand, Would freak me out. See you later :)"

"Look fwrds to it. Tom. x"

Caroline reached over to hit your knee and hissed "Put your bloody phone away, you never look at it in the theatre!!"

You showed her the text trail and she practically jumped out of her skin. "Holy shit Elsa. is that... a date?!? Jesus!"

"Not a date, you pillock, we're both invited. but promise me you are going to manage to speak at some point, you are fangirling so hard you're like a walking ComicCon!"

"He is so fucking hot! That's why!? Elsa, this is a date, whatever you think. I am the detail. But yes, we are going. You need to get all over that asap. You looked adorable at the bar together, like he actually can just hang out like a normal person with you"

"Urgh, calm the hell down Caroline. And concentrate. We're about to annoy everyone in the place - and anyway, he IS normal! Just perfect gentleman, fucking intelligent, hideously gorgeous, stupidly talented normal. Damnit!"

You grasp her hand and squeeze it as if transmitting the excitement in silence. One box along you feel a pair of eyes on you in the dark and glance over. Behind Luke's profile, you see two steely blue eyes gazing at you briefly.

You look away quickly, as does he, clearly smiling into himself.

There's no mistaking it, he was looking at you.

You are officially a 12 year old. And desperate for this comedy gig to end.

 


	5. Snake Hips Hiddleston

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we witness a dance off and some terrible jukebox action. And a possible date...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please excuse geographical and locational licenses... bit of along one, but the kind reviews and comments spurred me on! Thanks all :)

You exited the Udderbelly tent as fast as you could as soon as the lights went up.

 

Luke and Tom had already snuck out under cover of darkness and you and Caroline made your way out the back exit and onto Jubilee Gardens slip road.

 

Sure enough as you turned away from the theatre tent you spotted a small group of cold and bored looking photographers, all jostling by the fire exit in the hopes of spotting Tom.

 

"Well, it's going to be a slow news day for those guys tonight..." you whispered to Caroline - clearly Tom and Luke had been smuggled out a different exit and the poor paps were in for a disappointing haul of snaps.

A few minutes later you stood by a small statue on the far right corner of Jubilee Gardens as per a whatsapp instruction. You saw a black sedan pull up slowely to the curb and the back door slide open. You looked at Caroline and grinned - "Well, here goes madness!" before hopping in. You had barely sat down when the car pulled off again. Tom and Luke were sat on the seats opposite you, in a black cab formation.

"Thanks for waiting - sorry we had to be so stealthy, it’s really not fair on you to be papped... began TOm

... AND it's your night off, remember?" Luke noted with a mock-stern voice, giving Tom a steely disapproving look. "Which I practically had to FORCE you to take!"

"Wow, never thought I'd hear a Publicist actively avoiding media attention!" You joked.

"Believe me, there's going to be tons of that in the next few days - the schedule is nuts for almost ten days straight. They can have one night of running after someone else!"

 

You glanced over at Tom who looked exhausted just thinking about it - still exuding the ever present buoyant positivity, but you sensed a slight twinge of frustration underneath. You gave a small smile across the seats in his direction and he looked up slowly, meeting your smile back - a private look it felt as Caroline and Luke started talking animatedly about where you were headed.

 

"So where do you go where you aren't going to be hassled by idiots?" Caroline offered, directed at Luke as she clearly still couldn't quite bring herself to chat with Tom. The sedan sped along Chelsea Embankment before taking a turn right heading up towards north London.

"There's a couple of really nice cosy pubs up by Primose Hill - once you get out of central London people just tend to leave you alone. We have our regular spots and the owners keep a tight ship in terms of the crowd.” Luke explains.

"Let's go to The Queen's" volunteers Tom. He pulls out his mobile and calls a number "Hi, hello - yes, Craig, mate, it's Tom. How are you?... Yeah, great, really good. Listen, a couple of friends and I are heading your way, any chance of sorting us a quiet table at the back? ...Brilliant, you're an absolute legend thank you so much. See you in a bit!"

You laugh out loud.

"Well, this is definitely a step up from our average night out. Smelly Uber ride then fighting the masses in the happy hour queue with all the suits. I might need to be introduced to this Craig so I can add him to my speed dial!"

"Or you can add me to your speed dial and I'll sort it!" Jokes Tom.

You want to sink into the leather seat and be swallowed whole. _Hold it together Elsa!!_

“There’s one rule with The Queen’s” Tom declares suddenly, perking up and breaking into a huge grin.

Luke groans “Oh, god. You’re not going to subject us to Jukebox Death Match are you?” Luke mock-rolled his eyes and started laughing. “Ladies, you are in for a treat. Hope you feel like dancing… there’s a crappy old jukebox at the back of this pub, I think Tom’s more than near destroyed it on multiple occasions playing the worst of all the records on it…”

You shoot a quizzical glance in Tom’s direction and he just shrugs innocently.

“Is this poor pub about to be subjected to ‘the snake hips’?” You throw at him, one eyebrow cocked up…

“Only if you’re up for it?” He challenges back.

“Oh, you are ON! I can give your Gangnam a run for its money!”

You both laugh. Caroline practically digs a rib out of you.

 

You arrive at the pub and sure enough, despite it being relatively busy for a Tuesday night, no one bats an eyelid when you bundle in through the side door. To be fair the crowd all look well-heeled, like half of them probably work in film anyway and want as much discretion as your little group.

Tom bear hugs the short Irishman behind the bar who escorts you all to a lounge room by a large fireplace alcove. There in all its glory stands the ancient jukebox, covered in old band stickers – Elvis and co.

Craig takes your orders, beers all round and within minutes you feel like you’re basically at home in someone’s lounge. Luke and Caroline are bitching away on the opposite side of the large oak table, about PR nightmares and celebrity gossip – the irony (!).  Tom sits beside you and picks up your earlier conversations about home.

“This is my go-to spot when I’m back in London. Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t be where I was without the fans or the press and I am eternally grateful for them, but this is where I can just chill out and be me. And when I’m in the full on work mode that I am in right now, there’s nothing better than a night out at the local without the paps and the speculation!”

“It’s a lovely pub, can’t beat a fireplace – only thing missing is a dog! My parent’s retriever would be curled up right by the fire, probably dreaming of fireflies and doing that crazy dog thing where they run in their sleep!

“Snap! My Mum has a retriever too, best dogs in the world. I miss old Monty when I’m not home.”

“Monty?” You grin. "Seriously?"

“Yes - ehehe" he pulls his adorable smile with his tongue between his teeth "yeah, we weren’t exactly hitting the dog-naming originality high notes in that particular moment!”

You smile and take a long sip of your drink and realise your knees are brushing right up against Tom’s. He looks relaxed and happy, calmer than in the cab. He looks at you briefly and supresses a small smile.

“I’m glad you enjoyed the show this evening. And that you were cool with coming out, I thought the whole pap thing might be a bit off-putting. I normally plan these things a bit better, or its friends who are sort of used to the whole thing.”

“Honestly, it was a pleasure. I mean, I’m just doing my job, but this is fun. And the show was hilarious, you must pass on compliments to your mate Alan, he had us in stitches. This is a treat – and yeah, I think the pap thing is weird, or even a bit scary? But maybe I think most of this is a bit weird!”

“Trust me, even after several years, it still surprises me. It’s all a whirl really, I just keep focused on the fact that most of it is fake or with an agenda, people will always want to imagine how you think or what you feel or speculate on your life. But there’s a real life ticking on in the background and that is mine and most of it is – well, pretty normal and boring really. He pauses…. “

I hope it’s not all too weird” – he smiles gently, then looks you straight in the eye – “I might want to invite you out again.”

You blush and can barely suppress it – it feels like the log fire suddenly exploded. He has clearly notices and – in typical Tom style, noticing your obvious discomfort, immediate changes the subject.

“Obviously any second invitation hinges entirely on your dancing prowess, and of course, I am judging you on song selection too!” He nods over to the jukebox.

You jump up, grab another beer and grab Tom by the elbow as he is getting out of his chair to walk over to the jukebox.

“Oooh, judge away, Mr Hiddleston. I have the feeling we are about to bond over mutually horrendous cheesy tunes!”

The deal is – you each get to play three tracks. Luke and Caroline are to judge the bad taste on a scale of 1-10, then accompanying dancing skills.

You are first up – Tom turns his back as you pick from a pretty dazzling array of cheese.

Second later, you have pulled out a chair and are standing on it, as the opening beats to Yazz’s The Only Way is Up start pumping out. Tom turns round to find you arms up, lipsynching on your chair and starts laughing

“Ah that is TRULY terrible. And brilliant!”

He starts clapping as you get Luke and Caroline out of their seats and you all sing along – completely out of tune as the song hits the crescendo.

“8 out of 10 for cheese. As for the dancing, girl – erm – somewhere in the region of 11?!” Caroline laughs and Luke nudges Tom

“I smell serious competition…”

“Yeah" – you laugh – "except his legs are about ten times longer than mine, so I expect some SERSIOUS snake hip action!”

Tom heads over to the machine and gives you all a dead serious look.

“Right – time for the professionals to show you all how it’s done." He hits play and reaches out a hand to you to help you off your chair.

“And you, Miss Elsa Johnson, look like you would make an excellent partner in dancing crime”

The song has barely begun when Tom grabs you and pulls you close – as Wham’s Wake Me Up starts to blare out of the speakers.

You barely have time to start laughing when he spins you out and pulls you back again, getting into a bit of a swing dance groove. You thank your lucky stars you actually had lessons in this for a few years and can match his skills, although given he is so bloody tall he moves at a ridiculous pace.

Luke and Caroline are bopping away beside you but have to clear space as Tom and you take up the room, and he spins you out again. The two of you are laughing your heads off, then split from the embrace as he turns to face you, both dancing on the spot, bodies close as George Michael rattles on in the background.

Tom gives you a serious look and cocks up one eyebrow. In his deepest voice, practically rumbling out of his chest he whispers

“Snake hips you say, eh? Is that what Madame is requesting?” If the moment weren’t so hilarious, you might melt into a puddle on the floor.

Instead, you sidle right up to him and look him straight in the eye, noses practically touching as you shimmy on the spot.

“Show me what you’ve got.”

“Well, if we insist Miss Johnson…”

“Oh, we insist, mucho” – you grin.

He breaks away and with the cheesiest grin alive, starts his dorky Gangnam hip shake, biting his lip, giving it the full Beegees. He is loving every moment, and the rest of you are in hysterics.

“10 out of 10 on totally shit song – sorry Elsa” Luke laughs “As for dancing, well – DOUZE POINTS!”

Tom gives it one more hip wiggle then grabs your hand again to swing you off around the room.

Five songs, and MANY beer later, you take your seats again, deeply engaged in a debate on truly awful (and occasionally decent) music and bad Dad dancing experiences. Out of nowhere it is suddenly 2 am and you and Caroline realise you both have a 9 am presentation meeting and real life is somewhere far beyond this cosy Primrose Hill pub.

As you step into the night, Luke and Caroline walk on ahead to a main road to hail a cab for both of you. You walk further back with Tom.

“Well, it’s refreshing to meet my match on the dancefloor." Tom says, "and may I commend you on your truly terrible selection of songs.”

You chuckle “Well, I feel privileged to have experienced the famous Hiddles Hips for myself, however, I dare say I may have upstaged you with my New Kids on the Block routine…!”

You shiver a little as the air turns cool, or maybe just because for a moment you wonder what you are even doing there or the randomness of the evening.

Just before you turn the corner on to the main road Tom slows down and grabs you gently at the elbow.

“Listen, Elsa. I really enjoyed this evening – and since I’m going to be in town for a bit and you like the theatre, maybe we might get to go out another time and you can gang up with Luke on reminding me to get out of my workaholic hole from time to time? Or, you know, a walk or something.”

You look up at him, and smile softly.

“I – yes. I would be very happy to assist with dragging you out. Not that Luke looks like he needs a wing lady, but I could definitely assist.

“Obviously, not WITH Luke” – he rushes to add. “Just, you know, the two of us.”

“Oh! Oh, yes, of course. Um… how…” you look hesitant and a bit nervous. “Look. I would really like it, I just – I am not sure about the whole photographers thing and, I don’t know, it’s just a bit weird for me and I don’t want to be… um you know, “mystery brunette” or whatever! Not that I would ever…”

_Oh god the rambling! You want to fall under the first bus that rolls along…_

“Hey, I get it don’t worry” – he gives you a reassuring smile “Look, there’s a lot of press stuff going on in the next week or so, so I absolutely don’t blame you if you’d rather not. But, if you’re worried about the photographers and stuff, we can deal with it and work around it. I can get Luke to arrange things, I have a club we can go to  – well, it’ll just look like business. I have a few old friends still in town and they would testify, its’ easy to go incognito when you want to!”

“Your club? How very ‘London Spy’…. OK, it’s a deal. You… do what you have to do and let me know when you’re free and I would be delighted to meet for a Dance-Off rematch.”

“Excelllent. It’s what I was hoping you would say. Now let’s join those two old BFFs over there before they run off without us.” As casually as anything he takes your hand and walks to the corner where Caroline is already holding a cab waiting.

 

You turn to say bye to Tom, who swoops down and places the gentlest of kisses on your cheek, before leaving you with a huge grin. “Goodnight, get home safe” He gives Caroline a small wave as she gets into the cab. You hug Luke goodnight and follow her in.

 

The door has barely closed when she grabs you and immediately starts squealing.

“WHAT THE FUCK Elsa?!?! Talk about supercharged chemistry in the room?!?!?!? What the hell even was that?”

You look back at her, a mix of bewildered, happy and almost equally as nervous.

“I’m not entirely sure, but I think I just got asked on a date?!”

 

 


	6. Awards and Kisses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we attend an awards, eat Shepherd's Pie and get a goodnight kiss for good behaviour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The only thing I know to be legitimately true in this is that the Ivy does do a fantastic Shepherd's Pie....

Chapter 6

The following week passed in a bit of a blur. You did your best to keep your hopes down and crack on with the million projects you were up against, but given the entire bizarreness of your situation you couldn’t help but check your phone a bit more often than usual and pay a bit more attention to the entertainment pages of Metro and the Standard.

Obviously no one at work was any the wiser – strictly keeping shtum on the entire pub dance off scenario. Anyway, what was there even to say? You may or may not go for a walk at some point with an actor whose project you are supposed to be keeping top secret and who may or may not just being a perfectly polite human being who frankly looks like he gets along dandy and is bezzies with just about anyone on this planet.

Despite your best efforts to concentrate on your day job, even if you’d gone to live as a hermit under the world’s biggest rock you had Caroline updating you almost hourly with ridiculous updates.

“He’s doing an interview with Chris Evans at Radio 2 this morning”

“He’s just tweeted about Unicef!”

“Has he texted yet…..???”

“Jesus, Caroline! This is worse than having the Daily Mail live streamed into my face!” – you type in ALL CAPS on Skype from the other side of your office. You glance up at her across the room from over your computer and give her a “PSYCHO!” face. She pulls her tongue out at you.

“You do realise we are grown women in our thirties, right?” you type at her again “I am being very important and overseeing a ground-breaking media campaign that is about to change the face of PR…I don’t have time for your insanity”

“Ha, bollocks to that! You’re knee deep filling out your expenses forms and counting down to Duke’s o’clock with me!”

Well. In that she was definitely right. You sighed, logged off and went to get your coat.

They hadn’t been wrong about the PR machine. With two films to promote, the London Film Awards coming up and an announcement by Unicef, along with their celebrity ambassadors that they were partnering with The Globe theatre to launch an education awareness campaign , there were press junkets a go-go. There didn’t seem to be an issue of Metro or single TV chat show he wasn’t appearing on.

It was no surprise really, your phone remained silent.

***

Duke’s was crammed as usual. You and Caroline perched at your favourite table by the window and chewing over ideas for a mutual friend’s upcoming hen weekend. You were both bridesmaids and in charge of organising the weekend away. Just as you were arguing the merits of Barcelona versus Dublin your phone buzzed.

Whatsapp.

Tom.

“Hi Elsa. So terribly sorry for the radio silence. It’s been quite the week and I didn’t want to be messaging you at unholy hours of the day. I hope you are well? How is your big launch project going? Would you happen to be free this Wednesday evening, I am being allowed a ‘night off’? Tom x”

You stared blankly at the phone as if it had grown a head.

Caroline squeaked. You both started laughing. You feel your cheeks growing hot then suddenly remember. Wednesday. You have an awards event for work. Of ALL THE BLOODY DAYS!!!!

Urgh – you cursed the calendar gods. There was no getting out of it either, you were there to scoop a prize – one you frankly deserved… You left it as long as you could (20 minutes) before answering back.

“Lovely to hear from you! By the way, David Cameron called, he wants his regular mug shot on the cover of the Evening Standard back… I would have loved to be free next Wednesday but it’s actually my turn that night to collect an award. We’re at the Tatler Restaurant Awards and I can’t get out of it. Wish I could…”

There is a dramatic pause. So long in fact you almost manage a second bottle of wine as you pretend not to wait for a response. Caroline looks even more upset than you do!

Eventually…

“Haha, touché! Fantastic news about the award – I have no doubt you deserve it several times over. There are a few days in the next couple of weeks, if you can handle some spontaneity?”

You smile, and feeling a bit cocky:

“I can handle most things, Mr Hiddleston. And spontaneity is something I excel at.”

“Excellent. Well in that case Miss Johnston, may I wish you a very pleasant rest of your evening and I look forward to our eventual second encounter! Take care. x”

The X on the end nearly kills you.

Bloody Tatler Awards!

***

Wednesday swung around. At 5 pm you were in the office loo, fussing over make up and trying desperately to tame a stray curl with a set of curling tongs. The cab was coming to take you over to the Savoy Hotel in half an hour and you felt completely rushed, as usual. You were wearing a floor length scooped back black gown and your favourite vintage strappy gold heels from a shop in Notting Hill. Two teardrop gold earrings and your hair scooped up in a bun. You had to admit, you looked pretty damn knock out.

“Hmm, I scrub up well, if I say so myself!”

Caroline was beside you in a blue chiffon dress along with two other colleagues all dressed to the nines. You were about to pick up Restaurant of the Year for one of your latest openings and there was no way you were getting away with a half-arsed fashion attempt at a Tatler event.

The evening flew by, Champagne flowed – there was the usual back-slapping and schmoozing – endless air kisses with one journalist or another, a real PR event. When Restaurant of the Year was announced for “Il Papagaio” the latest Italian venue you’d opened last Autumn, you went up with Head Chef and collected the glass award. There was a flash of camera – which made you instinctively wince – it had never been something you enjoyed – then quickly exited to make your way to the bar.

By 10 pm you were sat with Caroline and a couple the Tatler editorial team watching as the crowd got progressively more sloshed. You couldn’t help but stifle a yawn – you’d been up til stupid o’clock sifting through emails the night before and by this point you were starting to get bored.

You fished into your bag to sort out an Uber taxi when you noticed the message. It had come through ten minutes earlier.

“Hello Miss Restaurant of the Year. Am sure you are currently wowing the Tatler glitterati with your salient wit and – if they’re lucky – your dazzling jazz hands… but in case you are not, it just so happens I am in the area…”

No way! You walked off pretending to make a call then hurriedly typed back. No point feigning cool – given his ridiculous diary, this may well be the only night off for another hundred weeks.

“My jazz hands have never been so in demand! No really, it’s starting to get a bit boring and was just calling an Uber…. Unless you have an alternative in mind?”

“Hang tight. Your Uber is on its way… If you can please make your way to the reception lobby?”

You wave at Caroline and point excitedly at your phone. She raises her eyebrows and – through the sheer power of telepathy – she knows exactly what you are indicating as you make your way discreetly to the exit of the ballroom.

You wander in to the lobby and look around. Apart from a few business travellers checking in at reception and one or two stragglers from the event coming on from having a ciggy break outside you aren’t sure what you are waiting for.

“Excuse me Madame, Miss Johnstone?”

You turn and face a tall, slim man in a black suit looking vaguely Men in Blackish.

“Your car is waiting” he simply states and motions you outside.

“Oh. Um – you look around wildly – of course it is!”

Outside, you recognise the familiar black tint-windowed Sedan and your heart does a sudden flip. This is all too surreal.

The door opens and you step in.

Tom greets you with the biggest smile – almost childishly enthusiastic.

“Elsa!” He leans over and quickly kisses you on the cheek. Then he sits back and slowly takes you in. “Wow, you look… gorgeous.”

You could say the same. He is wearing a sky blue shirt, sleeves rolled up, top three buttons open and his endlessly long legs are clad in black jeans and a pair of scuffed grey Clarks desert boots. His eyes seem more piercingly blue than ever.

“Why thank you – I feel ridiculously overdressed now! How come you were ‘in the area’?”

“Well, I had to meet with my agent to go over a couple of scripts and she is based in Soho so we stayed for a drink… I thought I’d see if I could gatecrash your party, but they just wouldn’t let me in!”

“Ha – as if!” You joked. Then looked up at him. “Well, I am charmed. And really – it was dragging on a bit. A hundred Chefs in a room is a bit too much ego for my liking! The sound of all the back-slapping is deafening! Where are we headed?”

“Well, you might be sick of restaurants, but are you hungry? I always find you never actually get round to eating at awards events, you’re constantly getting up and moving around… Can I … take you to dinner?”

“I am ravenous! Let’s do it!”

The sedan speeds off into the Soho night.

Less than fifteen minutes later you driver is ushering you into The Ivy club on West Street, Soho. But of course!

“We’ll have total discretion here.” Tom says reassuringly as he gently wraps an arm around your waist and quickly escorts you through the front door. His hand is protective and warm and… large! As you make your way up an elegant staircase you go first, and his hand sort of stays on your back as he goes up behind you. At least you are dressed the part, you think!

You are shown to a booth in a cosy corner. This feels so far removed from the pub a couple of weeks ago.

“Well, I think an award calls for a celebration – can I get you some Champagne?”

You laugh

“Well, it can’t hurt can it!”

Two glasses appear as if from nowhere along with two menus. You both order the Shepherd’s Pie – Ivy classic.

“So, what are the scripts you’re reading?” You ask “You’re probably not allowed to tell me…”

“Sadly you’d be right, but it’s just a couple of exploratory things really. Let’s just say that I really miss the theatre and a few opportunities may be coming up…” He looks bashful and fiddles with his wine glass.

“Gosh, Tom that would be great! It must be such a thrill being on the stage. The live audience, the atmosphere. Theatre is pretty magical…”

“It is – nothing like it. I adore film, but the theatre is raw and visceral and you just get such a buzz from seeing people in the crowd, knowing they are living it with you in the moment.”

“Don’t laugh, but I did Am Dram when I was younger, and I will never forget the buzz backstage on opening night.”

“You did Am Dram? Well, you’re full of surprises!

“Threepenny Players – we did The Crucible, Streetcar Named Desire, a couple of pantos… I loved it.

“Why did you stop?

“Work – depressingly enough. I couldn’t commit to the rehearsals because I travel a lot. I really left my heart in it though.”

Your food arrives, and you both tuck in – you order more wine and talk more about favourite plays. He lets you drive the conversation, listening to you as though you are the only person in the world. His smile completely disarms you, warm and generous. Time just melts away, it all just flows so comfortably.

You forget you are wearing a ballgown and are sat in The Ivy members club, and you forget that the man in front of you is the subject of newspaper headlines, twitter fan meltdowns and movie awards. You feel like you’ve known each other for years – both giggling like idiots over the same lame Am Dram jokes and embarassing auditions stories.

You suddenly feel a yawn come on and try to suppress it, unsuccessfully. You look mortified.

“Oh my god, I am so sorry – I cannot stress enough how much that is not you! I just…

Tom looks at his watch and raises an eyebrow.

“Oh, wow – it’s 2 in the morning. I’ve totally kept you up. You must be exhausted!”

“Look who’s talking?! But I have had a bit of a manic week, this is a rock and roll as I can get at the moment… It was lovely though, really. I didn’t even notice the time…”

“Me neither… And thanks for letting me drag you out. I’m not sure when I get another free evening and… well, I really was hoping you’d go along with my cunning locate and capture plan…”

You get up and a hostess brings you your jacket and bag. Tom immediately steps in to help you into it – he leans in close as he places it round your shoulders – you can smell his cologne and his warm skin. You swallow and look up at him. He eyes are boring right into you.

“You really do look incredible in that dress. Can I at least take you home?”

You can barely motion your lips to make a sound so settle for a smile and a nod.

“Well, that makes me the lucky guy then.”

You make your way down the steps, Tom again guiding you with his arm around your shoulder – protectively.

The doors open and suddenly, just as you look up you see a bright flash. Then another. Then a shout

“Tom! Tom! Over here! Express Magazine – Tom”

Then another shout

“Tom – is it true you’ve met with the Bond producers?”

You gasp – you had completely not expected any of this, especially considering how relaxing and discreet the Ivy was inside. You weren’t sure if it was the tiredness, or the wine, but you felt dazed by the noise.

The car pulled up almost instantly, but the flashes kept going.

Instinctively Tom pulled you closer to him and turned your face into his chest as you walked towards the car. Not knowing how else to react, you pulled the collar of your coat up and looked away – tucking your face into his leather jacket. The car door swung open and he quickly helped you inside.

He popped his head up one more time

“Thanks guys, but I don’t have an answer on that one. Have a lovely evening” and quickly got in beside you. The car pulled away.

You looked horrified. This was not what you wanted to have happened and most of all it just freaked you out.

You could see Tom looking frustrated, he slid up next to you in the back and put his hand on your knee – he asked gently

“Hey, Elsa – are you ok? I am sooo sorry about all that – I should really have checked before we walked out. I just – I didn’t expect anyone to have cottoned on. I suppose that was a bit naïve. Really, are you ok?

“I’m fine, just – a bit taken aback I think. I wasn’t expecting it. I just wasn’t really prepared!”

You tuck your hair behind your ears and smooth down your dress. Then look up at Tom. He looks really concerned.

“I feel really bad – and it’s been such a great evening.

“Tom…”– you laugh suddenly seeing how distressed he looks – “Really, it’s fine. It just came as a shock. I have never experienced that – it must be like daily bread for you!”

“It comes with the territory. I guess I am just used to it now, and I don’t mind it most of the time, but I wouldn’t have wanted it in this particular moment.”

“Am I going to be the subject of some horrendous rumour?” You suddenly feel ill – imagining people at work seeing any pictures.

Tom looks at you hard.

“Listen, there’ll probably be one or two gossip stories, but we’ll put out a statement first thing in the morning. I don’t want you to be upset by this, or feel uncomfortable. We’re old friends having a meal together.”

You laugh out loud.

“Old friends? Do you realise I’ve known you little more than three weeks?”

He smiles.

“We must just have good chemistry then…” The words hang in the air.

The car goes quiet. You are racing through south London – had you been less tired you would worry about him seeing the humdrum little lock of flats you live in just outside Brixton, but you are beyond caring and you know he wouldn’t give a damn either.

The driver is playing Heart FM which is softly playing out easy listening. The sedan is dark and warm. You lean back and Tom’s arm slowly slides up and around your shoulder allowing you to relax into him. His chest is firm and warm and you almost drift off except that from nowhere every nerve and fibre in your being is firing on all cylinders.

You feel his hand curl round your shoulder and his thumb make tiny, slow movements up and down, soothingly.

From out the window you can see you are getting nearer to your street.

“Nearly there” you murmur –practically into Tom’s chest.

“You can finally get your beauty sleep” he whipers into your hair. “Not that you need it”

You slowly ease yourself out of his arms, reluctantly, and start gathering your bag.

“I…. tomorrow morning…” you don’t even know how to broach the subject. “Just, let me know what to do, or not to do. I might work in PR but this is beyond my experience. Please just don’t name me”

“Of course not. Old friends, no story. I promise you. There’ll be no “mystery brunette”.”

“Thank you. And thanks for the ride home. Really, you need to get home yourself!”

The car slows as you reach your apartment block and the driver pulls up.

You pick up your bag and are about to lean in for a hug when Tom reaches out and cups your face.

“Elsa…”

You look at him wide eyed and your mouth parts in a soft O. His eyes are a heavy, lidded blue – looking right into you. You barely let out a small gasp of air before he leans in and with the gentlest touch leans in and places a soft kiss on your lips.

You feel the floor open up beneath you as he pulls you in closer. You reach up and caress his face, one hand clutching at the lapel of his jacket as you deepen the kiss. His lips warm, gentle but firm. He pulls away briefly and looks at you once more, almost seeking approval. You whisper a silent “yes” before he pulls you back in.

You feel like a teenager on a holiday fling – after so long being alone your hormones are suddenly flaring. The heat of his body is radiating. You stroke the skin of his neck, feel the soft curls at the nape a graze of stubble on his chin. Your lips part and you feel his tongue exploring your mouth as he strokes the back of your hair and wraps his arm around your waist. The kiss is passionate, but brief, still sweet but belies a hunger within it. He breaks away and looks at you with hooded eyes.

You both know you want more but now is not the moment. You give him a brief, sweet kiss and pull away.

“I have to go.” You bite your lip with a smile.

“I know. I really enjoyed my evening…. Sleep well.”

You step out of the car into the empty street, and fish for your keys. The window slides down and Tom leans out at you.

“You deserved that award. For being an absolutely incredible woman.” He grins.

“You’d better believe it!” You grin and blow him a kiss. The window slides up and he drives off.

You don’t even register getting up your stairs or into your t-shirt and short and into bed. Your lips are burning. Your body is on fire. You sink into your sheets and drift towards a fitful sleep.

The last sound you hear is your Whatsapp buzzing.

“I don’t think I can let another two weeks go by, I will be embracing spontaneity much more from now on… Tom xx­”


	7. The Courier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we see Tom in a cunning disguise and narrowly avoid being "mystery brunette".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may notice I am trying to work as many existing Tom recent scenarios in here as possible to try and keep it real... Obviously the courier thing is a load of creative license rubbish! :)

 

CHAPTER 7.

Six thirty am the next morning and your phone alarm pierced through your death-like slumber like a howling, earth-shattering siren from hell.

Your lips might still have been burning with pleasure, but the rest of your body and head felt like they’d been bludgeoned and sunk to the depths of the ocean.

You hit your phone to silent and huddled deeper under your covers, trying to block out the muggy grey light from your window.

Suddenly you bolted up.

 

The photographers.

The Ivy.

The news.

You grabbed your phone, and squinting in the early dawn pulled up various news apps – MailOnline and co.

There it was, FeMail column right under Kimye on their latest holiday. You had been holding your breath until that moment but adjusting to the picture, soon allowed yourself an intake of air.

**_“WHOSE NIGHT IS TOM HIDDLESTON MANAGING NOW?”_ **

Underneath was an initial full length pic of Tom emerging from The Ivy doors, looking pensive with a slightly furrowed brow, with just a bob of your head behind him (thank the GODS for his 6 feet and 2 inches!)

**_April 22_ ** _– Amid furious rumours that he is next in line to claim the Bond crown, Brit acting sensation Tom Hiddleston took time out from his busy schedule promoting The Night Manager to entertain a lady friend at famous celebrity-haunt The Ivy in London’s buzzing West End._

_Notoriously private about his personal life, Tom looked relaxed and laid back in a sky blue Burberry shirt, casual dark grey jeans and Aquatalia desert loafers as he emerged from the Restaurant and Members Club, swiftly followed by a mystery lady-friend with striking auburn hair._

_Could it be Tom is finally tired of managing his nights alone?_

There followed a gallery of about 5 pictures. By some immense stroke of luck, your face was barely visible in any of them, Tom’s quick thinking meant you had been shielded from any awkward angles. Your grey suede jacket hid most of your dress, Tom’s arm wrapped around your shoulder covered the styling of your hair and your face was turned away from the cameras, well into his chest.

A brief mobile phone video showed Tom popping his head out of the car to wave at the paps and comment “Thanks guys, but I don’t have a comment on that one right now. Have a lovely evening!”

You let out a whoosh of air and quickly checked any Tom Hiddleston google alerts. A couple of crappy online blogs had picked up the same pics but that was it.

Mystery fucking lady! Is there no end to British journalistic banality?!?!?

You quickly Whatsapped the link to Caroline and urged her to keep it under wraps. She was a Mail Online whore anyway so had no doubt seen it before you had and was being polite by not mentioning it.

You hauled yourself into the shower, aching all over with tiredness. It was going to be a day from hell.

Caroline met you at the entrance to your office and quickly pulled you to one side in the street.

“WHAT THE ABSOLUTE….” For once instead of grinning like a fan girl she looked genuinely concerned.

“I know! I know! God, I feel so stupid! I never should have gone for the stupid dinner. Is it obvious it’s me? Dan (our Director) is going to have a meltdown – for sure I’ll be taken off the project!”

“Calm down, girl, heeey……” Caroline took your arm and thrust a litre-sized coffee at you. “Take this, triple shot, and shut up for a minute. You can’t see anything in the pictures. Secondly, you didn’t actually do anything, right? So you had a meal with a client? We are in PR… this is sort of part of the job, -ish… Third – it basically only got picked up in the Mail. And two crappy blogs. And probably lots of obscure, fancore tumblr blogs no one is actually going to be looking at!”

“Do you think?”  


“Absolutely! And Luke...well.., they will probably not even issue a statement since there is nothing to answer to – or slip someone the “meeting an old RADA friend line” to make sure that spreads to the media discreetly. It’s a non-story. You’re just making it into something because the pics are of you!”

You feel reassured. You gulp the coffee. Just as you are about to drop the whole issue and walk into the building you look up at Caroline and clear your throat.

“Um, there is one more thing… We, er….. we kissed.”

Caroline’s eyes grow like saucers and she nearly squeals.

RIGHT! Clear the diary until 10 am – we are going to Gail’s for more coffee and ALL the juicy details!”

 

As you head to Gail’s bakery, your phone buzzes. No prizes for guessing who. You suddenly feel a shiver come on, as if you are back to the first moment you met and unsure and nervous.

“Hello?”

“Elsa, it’s Tom.” – Pregnant pause. “How are you this morning?”

“Tom! Hi. I am fine. Well…. Fine-ish. I have felt better….”

“Ehe yes, I struggled on my morning run, I have to say…” More silence… “Look, I guess you’ve seen the Mail piece. I am truly sorry, I mean... there’s no point responding as that will only fuel speculation where there isn’t anything to speculate on… no one will know it was you. I promise there will be no one harassing you.”

  
The fact he considered there to be nothing to speculate on, oddly, made you wince – of course, the last thing a guy with a schedule like Tom’s needs is any kind of entanglement, especially one the press are going to cotton on to…

“No, well, of course, there’s really nothing to write about is there… it’s fine.” You sound cold suddenly. You can hear him breathe on the other end.

“Elsa, it’s not what…”

“It’s fine, listen I have a really busy day and a crushing headache so I am going to go. Good luck with your script reading today. I might see you at the hotel when filming starts… or not.

“Elsa…”  
“Bye!”

You hung up. Feeling woozy, tired and frustrated. You looked at the pictures again. It was so beyond you, beyond your humdrum life. You caught a glimpse of yourself in the coffee shop window. Attractive, but nothing extraordinary – just another girl in another office, going about life, not particularly tall, hair styled by Boots own brand products, high street clothes, a pokey shared flat in an “up and coming” part of London just like 99% of everyone else your age and disposition. Who is this girl in the arm of a movie star being ushered out of the London club?

You drained your second bucket of Americano and slunk up to your desk, Caroline keeping a low profile.

At 2 pm you got a call from Prosper PR. You recognised the number on your desk phone and felt a flush of heat to your face but when you picked up you heard a girl’s voice on the end simply letting you know a courier was on its way to deliver some confidential planning documents to sign asap.

Of course. Admin and diary management. The crushing reality of it all.

30 minutes later front desk called up.

 

“There’s a courier here for you Miss Johnson”

“I’ll be right down”

You lazily crawl out of your chair and into the lift. The doors open.

By the reception desk you see a tall guy in a black baseball cap chatting away to Dawn the office reception manager. He looks unnervingly familiar, despite the messenger bag, bashed up Vans and navy hoodie. His stance is poised and elegant, confident and ….

 

He turns to face you as your heels clatter across the marble floor.

“Miss Johnson? If you can just sign here please?”

He pulls off his Ray-bans and walks over to you with a yellow envelope thrust out. It’s Tom, looking ridiculously convincing (if unusually good-looking) as a courier. His eyes light up when he sees you and he flashes you a warm and completely disarming smile and mouths a silent "Surprise!" at you. You wanto pull a “I’m disappointed face” but the surprise at seeing him there throws you so much you just look perplexed instead, then laugh.

“Tom… what are you…I mean…. Er….”

He gives you a raised eyebrow look to let you understand Dawn at reception mustn’t suspect anything…

“Yes, thanks – where should I sign?”

“Just here Madame”, he moves closer to you and hands you a pen.

Dawn is on the phone behind Tom, staring listlessly at the London traffic outside as she chats away. Your fingers barely graze as you take the pen, looking him straight in the eye. You feel like a needle-full of adrenaline has been pumped straight into your ribcage.

“Of course!” You make a show of signing and Tom leans in as close as he can to you and whispers.

“You look beautiful… I wish I could kiss you." You swallow hard and look up to see him licking his lips briefly. "I had to come and make sure you weren’t angry.”

“Tom…" you look flustered... "you’re completely nuts. Whose bike is that?” You long for distraction as otherwise you could literally wrap yourself around him then and there.

“It is actually the courier's bike. These are genuine documents. I just thought it would be nicer to have them delivered by a familiar face. To see you.”

You take the papers and fiddle with them briefly, not leaving his gaze.

“I... I can’t stay, although I want to. But… I really appreciate this. I… I am not mad at you. I just…”

“I know. I have to go too and I’m away for a few days, but… I’ll call you. And please know I really, really enjoyed yesterday. Really.”

“Everything alright Elsa?” Dawn raises her head from behind the desk and is looking at you

“Yes!!! All good, just thought there might be a document missing. Courier’s just leaving!”

Tom quickly puts his shades back on and slips his hoodie over his cap before taking back his pen.

He winks briefly and is gone.

You waltz upstairs in a blur as Tom hops onto the city bike and speeds off.

As soon as you are safely ensconced at your desk you let out an enormous sigh. Your heart is hammering. It's so long since you felt this rush.

Your phone buzzes a few minutes later.,/p>

“Note to self – texting and cycling at the same time is not my forte. I am away for a week filming on the coast. I’ll be on the phone but probably odd hours. I wanted to part on good terms. And I wanted to make sure I let you know that I hope that isn’t the last time I get to kiss you. Talk soon, Tom x.”

You grinned and trembled as you started to text back. Blimey, what a schoolgirl! He had mentioned the trip, all part of the same drama they were soon to be shooting at Riverside Hotel. You felt your cheeks burn.

“Well, don’t try any simultaneous texting and stuntman pranks, or texting and car chasing or whatever you are planning on filming either. There’s no kissing if you’ve fallen off a cliff… However, if you make it back safe and sound….. ;) Elsa x”

“I will be safe, sound and very, very happy. Take care, Tom x”

One week. One agonising week.


	8. Sneaking around...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sooo.. took a little break to work through the seven stages of #Hiddleswift... since it doesn't appear to be dying down any time soon it is time to get a move on and pick this up again! No haters comments please, the guy's private life is none of our business, let's respect the Hiddles for the absolutely lovely chap that he is :) 
> 
> As usual, most of everything is not 100% factually accurate although I borrow some real names and locations... 
> 
> No SMUT yet - but it's a comin' soon! This is pure fluffy fluff.

Two days after Tom had couriered you your documents, you and Caroline were sat in your shared flat getting settled in for a night of House of Cards bingeing, homemade lasagne and a bottle of red. As your confidante in this entire affair she had proved the best person to unleash all the madness to, but also - blissfully - as silent and secretive as a stone with respect to your workplace and circle of friends. A true, trustworthy friend. 

The film set was on total lockdown in terms of secrecy - there was suddenly complete media silence - for which you were truly grateful - any rumour about Tom having any kind of a fling whatsoever had died in an instant as the filming crew had relocated to the Devonshire coast. 

You had received a couple of short messages since he had left, one when he had arrived, which you'd received on the bus to work.

"On set - rain lashing but excited to get started with filming. Long day ahead! There are some stunning surf cottages on the coast here, overlooking the sea. When can you next take a holiday? Tom xx"

You'd had a brief exchange of dates - you had nothing more than a long weekend booked off in a couple of weeks time, but knowing full well he would be knee deep in filming for several weeks so it was probably wishful thinking...

"Remember when I said I would be embracing spontaneity?", he had responded almost immediately, "let's just say if you haven't made plans for that break yet, I have some ideas"

You had nearly fallen out of the bus. Caroline swooned when you read her out the exchange in the work loos - the only safe zone away from prying eyes and office gossip. 

"Elsa, it is ON! The guy is smitten! He's blatantly going to whisk you away... Jesus, it must have been some kiss!"  
"It was NOT ENOUGH kiss!" you laughed, "I can hardly believe it even happened! Argh this week is maddening....... there's no way he'll get time during filming, he's probably just being a big old flirt..." you paused for a moment and confessed "Caroline, I am slightly terrified of what I am getting into!"

Caroline leaned over and gave you a hug, she was only too aware the amount of shit you had put up with in your last relationship and how much you had been hurt. She could certainly understand the apprehension. Yet, at the same time, she was getting a really positive vibe from Tom - something different; fun, kind, caring but also mature, worthy, a good match. 

You silently hoped Tom would get the time off - since you had no plans for your long weekend other than a couple of gallery visits and could think of nothing you'd enjoy more than a seaside getaway with him, to get to know each other properly. To figure out what was going on. And eventually, you knew, you would have to face up to the spectre of your past relationship and start to move on and rebuild....

What a divine way to rebuild, you thought!

***

You were halfway through episode 3 of House of Cards when your doorbell buzzed. 8 pm - who could it be?

You padded to the door in your pyjamas and cautiously opened it. You came face to face with an enormous bunch of pink, orange and yellow hibiscus flowers - your absolute favourite. The delivery guy - who was dwarfed by the huge bouquet handed them over along with a card.

"For Miss Johnson, thanks!" - he dashed off, leaving you bewildered on your doorstep.

Caroline jumped up as soon as you walked back in.

"WOW! They are gorgeous!! Don't tell me..."

You tore open the card as Caro dug out a vase to stand the flowers in, a simple white embossed card with elegant ink pen scrawl.

"Dear Elsa, a little bird told me these would bring a smile to your face. That beautiful face that I truly cannot wait to see again. Thinking of you... Tom xxx"

You blushed the most crimson you had ever been and literally looked speechless. Besides barely taking it in, you were quite overwhelmed with the sentiment. Such a short note and yet in 4 years in your previous relationship you weren't even sure you had ever received flowers, let alone such a bold act of old fashioned wooing. You grabbed your wine glass and took a deep gulp. Caroline was still goggling over the flowers - you suddenly realized she must have been the little bird in question.

"Wait, did you tell him about what flowers I like? How on earth...."  
"Let's just say the boy did his research" - she winked and reached over for another hug, laughing.

You had to send him a message. You snapped a quick picture of yourself smiling with the flower vase and whatsapped it over, fully expecting him to be knee deep in filming.

"Am absolutely overwhelmed. These are beautiful! Clever little bird ;) Am thinking of you too. Lots. E xxx"

Within a few minutes you got a response - a picture! There was Tom sitting in what looked like a make-up chair in a trailer, giving the most dorky wave and grin and holding a hand scrawled sign that simply said "4 more days!".

Somehow, you just felt something click. This was going to be something special.


	9. Garden kisses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which late night phone calls lead to dinner Chez Tom and planning for a weekend getaway. 
> 
> ALMOST at the SMUT, but not QUITE YET (don't hate me folks... I did promise a slow burn).
> 
> Creative license as usual. Beyond knowing that Tom lives in Chalk Farm (which is North London, near Kentish Town and Regent's Park) no one knows more than this. So I took the liberty of selecting an imaginary property... http://www.rightmove.co.uk/property-to-rent/property-42207219.html 
> 
> On the other hand, no creative license with regards to the Devon coast. It is truly beautiful and very surfy.

Over the next few days your work schedule was so hectic you barely had time to breathe, for which you were almost grateful as the countdown to finally meeting Tom again had your stomach in knots and your head swimming.

You’d exchanged messages here and there, his often late in the evening after the shooting had wrapped – often with pictures showing you his day.

One was a dorky selfie which had him perched on a rocky outcrop down by the sea at sunrise, showing a small group of surfers behind him hitting the early morning waves – he had clearly been out for a run – tendrils of hair stuck to his forehead with damp.

“This beach is beautiful – sorry for my sweaty face! Just a reminder to keep your long weekend free!”

In a moment of doubt, late one night after a particularly trying afternoon of meetings, you’d messaged him:

“Horrible day, really looking forward to seeing you again and really love the idea of escaping London. But… worried a holiday might be too much… too soon? Are you sure it is what you want? We hardly know each other. I really want to, just want to make sure it is cool for you, especially with all the attention on you etc. at the moment”

At that he’d called you straight away and you’d ended up talking late into the night.

“Hey”, he’d almost whispered – it was almost midnight – “sorry to hear about your bad day. What happened?”

“Oh nothing really, just a 2 hour massacre of a month’s work by our CEO – he wants to completely change an entire plan we’d been working on and he just doesn’t have any tact… my team are tired and stressed and they took it badly, so I’ve been dealing with them all moaning too! Nothing for you to worry about really!”

“Well, that’s just not cool – not when you’ve all put so much time in. And let me worry about it – I can’t really offer you a shoulder to cry on, but feel free to chew my ear off about it, it’s just nice to hear your voice.

You blush into your pillow… God you can’t wait to see him!

“Yours too… Listen, I’m sorry about my last message. I just – I guess I panicked a bit. I haven’t really done this for a while… I mean… I haven’t really, erm… you know, dating? Urgh I can’t even explain myself!”

You heard Tom giggle softly on the end of the line.

“Don’t worry Elsa, please? The last thing I want is for you to feel uncomfortable. How about, we meet Friday evening for dinner. Bring a travel bag. If you are comfortable after dinner we can take the trip – I have a little place in mind it’s got an outhouse, so totally separate ... ah… ahem, rooms – parts of the house even… no pressure, call it a chill out long weekend with a friend. If you totally hate the idea after Friday we don’t even have to go away. Although I’ll pull a really, really evil puppy dog face if you hate the idea and make you feel horrendously guilty.”

“Haha, I can’t possibly handle the puppy dog face, no!!!! OK, it’s a deal. Friday dinner and I’ll bring a travel bag. I can’t imagine a single scenario where I would hate Friday. Unless you’ve grown a third head. Or … I don’t know, become a train spotter who wants to spend the entire weekend showing me the 9.41 from Plymouth…”

He laughs out loud

“You found me out! No… it’s really not what I planned on spending the weekend doing….”

There is an awkward silence suddenly and your body temperature notches up somewhere uncomfortable. Sensing it, as ever, he breaks the quiet.

“I really am looking forward to seeing you again. Just to have some time to hang out together. Get to know each other.

“Me too.” You smile and he can hear it down the line.

“Let’s have dinner at mine? It’s a surefire way to be able to relax and not have the press sniffing around.

“Really? I … yes, I would love that. Let’s face it, if you came for dinner at mine I think my flatmates would die from the shock. There’d be riots…”

“Ehehehe – well, I don’t plan on adding murderer to my resume any time soon… so yes, dinner at mine. I’ll message you. Also… get some sleep, it is 2 am and you need rest!

“Yes, Sir!” You laugh. “Goodnight. Sleep well”

“I shall now. Sweet dreams”

You wait a bit before hanging up, just hearing him breathe. Then the phone clicks off.

 

 

Friday rolled around after what seemed like an interminable week.

You got changed in the office – although from nerves you felt like nothing you could do to your make up was working and everything felt stiflingly hot. You’d opted for a casual skinny blue jeans, grey ankle boots and a slouchy blue and white cable knit sweater, your hair loose around your shoulders. This was your attempt at “trying hard to look like you are not trying hard”. Admittedly you had worried at least twenty minutes over which shoulder to slouch the jumper off until you finally huffed in frustration, started at the mirror and said out loud

“Else. Hold your shit together. You look good. Get out the door. Stop being a total idiot. Deep breath. Go kick some ass!”

An address pinged through on Whatsapp. For a brief second you giggled nervously internally that the address currently jotted into the message was like every newspaper and gossip magazine’s holy grail. One place that had never been written about. You saw this as an enormous sign of trust on Tom’s part, and instinctively memorised it and deleted it off your phone.

“5, St Mark’s Crescent, Primrose Hill. I’ll buzz you in at the gate. Hope you’re hungry! T xx”

Needless to say, the house was stunning. A double fronted, elegant brick building with a wrought iron gate and tall columned front porch in a quiet, discreet cul-de-sac shaded by leafy oaks trees. Such a far cry from your Brixton houseshare you almost laughed out loud. You waited until the taxi had left before buzzing the gate.

“Hello – come on in!” His voice rang out from the intercom. The gate swayed open and you walked up to the front door.

It swung open and you had to take a deep breath just seeing him standing there.

He was barefoot, in a pair of loose-fitting charcoal grey jeans, a white v-neck t-shirt that strained ever so slightly against the muscles of his arms and a slight hint of stubble around his gorgeous face. He held a tea towel in one hand that he quickly tucked into his back pocket. His hair, slightly mussed, glinted almost reddish in the fading sun. He had the widest grin on his face as you walked up to the door.

Almost as soon as you’d reached him you dropped your travel bag on the ground as he wrapped both arms around you and pulled you into an embrace. You wanted to melt against him, his tall, hard body completely pressed against you. He whispered against your ear, through your hair

“That was the longest week…” – his hot breath tickled against your skin, making the butterflies in your stomach dance even harder.

He pulled away and looked at you right in the eyes – almost painfully blue in the late evening light. Your breath caught in your throat at how good this felt, and how badly you ached for him in that moment. A flash of hunger crossed his eyes, which he lowered to your lips. He leaned in and pulled you into the most delicious kiss.

A small moan escaped your lips as his tongue sought yours out, one hand reaching up to cup your face, and gently stroke the side of your cheek as his other arm pulled you against him. Your fingers dance through the soft curls at the back of his head, your tongue teasing him, and your lips softly nibbling at his – causing him to smile against your mouth, then crush his lips to yours even harder as you made him want you even more.

“Let’s take this inside” he breathed heavily, barely breaking the kiss to pick your bag off the ground and haul it inside, taking you by the hand as he pulled you in and kicked the door shut.

The hall was dark and cool – you heard your bag thud on the floor where Tom dropped it to pull you back into a searing kiss.

You felt like a schoolgirl snogging in the bike shed with the class hunk, and it was utterly heavenly. Your toes literally curled. Your mouths explored each other’s, your hands roamed – Tom pulled you up on your tiptoes to kiss the nape of your neck and softly kiss behind your ears and the sides of your mouth. He pushed the hair off your face and smiled at you, wide-eyed and flushed – breaking into a bashful grin with the tip of his tongue pushed up against his teeth. He was irresistible.

“I could kiss you for hours” he laughed.

“Don’t let me stop you…” you smiled back and he immediately went back in to hungrily claim your lips.

There was no mistaking the hardness pressing into your thigh as you kissed him back, his fingers trailing down your back and scarcely grazing the soft skin of your lower back under your t-shirt, his fingers burning hot. You did a sharp intake of breath as he took your lower lip in his mouth and suckled gently, letting out a soft, but audible moan as you arched your hips up against him.

A sudden fit of nerves kicked in and you pulled away. Looking him straight in the eye. You couldn’t help but smile at his dishevelled, happy face. You gave him a chaste kiss this time.

“Tom, I….. god, I love kissing you, but I… I – need to take this a bit slowly. Sorry, I just… I need a couple of minutes to, ah, digest this whole scenario!”

Tom looked you hard in the eyes, gently tilted your chin up towards him and smiled as he leaned in for a soft, sweet kiss.

“Hey, sshhh…. Don’t ever feel you need to apologise, Elsa, for anything. We have all the time in the world, I want you to understand that – I’m not going anywhere! And anyway, I can’t deprive you of dinner…

“Did you cook it yourself?” You broke away, grateful for the distraction to allow your body to cool down. Your fingers intertwined with Tom’s who gently grazed his thumb against yours, in a comforting gesture, before pulling your hand up to his lips to kiss it gently.

“I did indeed. The Hiddleston Family special. Made by my very own hands!”

You grinned, squeezing his hand as you walked down the hallway to the kitchen.

“Oh and what might that be?”

“Well… some might argue it is just a plain old casserole, but I like to think it has a little something magical about it. It’s my Nana’s old recipe, boy that lady could cook!”

You laughed then immediately took in a gasp as the hallway opened up into the most beautiful open plan kitchen, extended by a glass roofed conservatory that led to a garden area.

“Wow… this is….. well…. A bit of a step up from Chez Elsa…”

“I totally don’t do this kitchen justice either, I’m embarrassed to say. It’s usually noodles or takeaway – I’m often not in.” He looks saddened rather than boastful, you can tell he is secretly very proud of having cooked dinner himself. You wondered if it was the first time his casserole dish had seen the light of day in a while!

“Grand tour?” He grinned and pulled you close kissing the top of your head, before you pulled him down into a full kiss.

“Yes, please. That garden is incredible, let’s start there.”

Tom grabbed a bottle of wine from the kitchen counter and two stem glasses, before leading you through the conservatory and into the garden. Dusk was settling in and despite a cool breeze, the temperature was not unpleasant. The grass was bouncy under your feet and under a large rose bush were two wooden carved garden chairs and a table.

Tom popped the bottle down and poured you each a large glass. He looked you in the eye as he raised his to toast.

“Here’s to – hopefully – a weekend of fun, and discovery, with a beautiful girl” He flashed a cheeky grin and clinked his glass against yours.

You barely had to think twice as you smiled back.

“Here’s to me agreeing right now to go on this trip. Fun, and discovery.”

“Really? You’re sure?” He leans in close to you and you wrap your free arm around his waist, tucking a thumb under his t-shirt and skimming the soft hairs of his lower back.

“I am more than sure, Tom. Let’s do it.”

You pull him back in for a kiss, brimming with excitement at the prospect of an entire weekend doing nothing more than this. Well…. Hopefully a LOT more than just this.


	10. Tom's House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry fan-bunnies, massively long wait for this next chapter, sadly work is engulfing me at the moment! We are one chapter away from SMUTFEST! Please enoy this last little tidbit of slow burn.... 
> 
> As usual, have totally imagined everything in Tom's House etc and have no idea if his mum can paint or anything! :)

The Champagne goes down very easily, and as dusk really sets in it gets chillier in the garden. You make your way back into the kitchen where Tom busies himself at the stove whilst you walk around admiring some of the art on the walls.

There are a couple of small atmospheric watercolours of a pebbly beach by a bookcase at one end of the open plan kitchen-dining room – a bookcase, you note, absolutely overflowing with tomes on acting technique, screenplay interpretation and dog-eared Penguin editions of old British noir classics.

“Those are my mums, Tom glances up from the kitchen island, she’s very gifted – that’s the beach down by her house in Essex.”

“They are beautiful! So delicate. My mum is a painter too, funnily enough – she runs a small art group in Surrey. More portraits than landscapes. Have you got others?”

“Absolutely, all over the place really – when I first moved in I was working so much I didn’t really have time to do anything with the place so she effectively used the house as a gallery! Why don’t you have a look, there’s more on the staircase and the first floor – I’ll… er… put the rice on!”

You giggle at the odd domesticity of the situation and give him a small smile,

“In that case, I shall go and explore… and be back shortly!”  


You make your way up the steps gingerly, having not really had the official showround yet you feel a bit like a nosy intruder. A series of grey-toned landscapes of a stormy sea line up the staircase, leading onto a wide landing. More books, books everywhere in fact, are piled high on white bookcases.

On one wall there are several framed pages from scripts – you look closely and realise these are a collection of the first pages of early screenplays he must have worked on, marked up with ink scribbles, possibly from the directors.

You get to a series of closed doors, bar one which is peaking open. You resist the unbelievable urge to open every single one and poke around, but slip quietly into the room with the cracked-open doorway.

An absolutely enormous bathroom – well, more like a bloody spa, stands in front of you. Black and white flecked stone floor tiles also run halfway up the wall, with the rest a gleaming white. At one end a vintage freestanding bathtub sits proudly in the centre. At the side, a walk in rain shower big enough for a party – you immediately have every dirty thought under the sun, blush and move your eyes swiftly on. You can’t resist reaching out to a shelf of white fluffy towels – they smell vaguely of almond-milk soap and are ridiculously soft.

To the side nearest you, a twin sink and mirror set up with more cupboards and by one sink, a jumble of products, an electric toothbrush, and – a detail that has you laughing at how typical it is – an old fashioned shaving kit, shaving soap, a bristle brush and razor from Gentleman’s Tonic. There are bottles of cologne – notably a large glass bottle of Dunhill ICON. You take a sniff. Divine.

You realise you have been perving over the bathroom for an inordinate amount of time. Just as you are about to leave and head back down your phone vibrates.

Caro.

“Elsa, where the hell are you??”

“I’m in the bathroom…”

“What? Where? What do you mean??”  


“Tom’s bathroom. In. His. House.” You whisper as loudly as you can get away with.

“What the absolute F??? I thought you were out for dinner?”

“Well… um, now we are … in for dinner. In his house? Which – by the way – is completely ridiculously huge and beautiful and I am meant to be downstairs being fabulous and interesting and instead am sniffing his bloody towels like a teenager!!”

“SO WOULD I BE!!! Holy crap, well this progressed – I thought it was all ‘let’s go for dinner then see if a weekend is a good idea’ – sounds like it’s a yes then?”

“It is a triple yes! I just… you know? Fuck it? What do I have to lose, beyond my dignity, my heart, my head?! I can’t wallow forever right? And… it feels good you know? Unbelievable and bonkers. But good!

“You don’t need to tell me! Your chemistry is off the charts. Anyway, stop being a weirdo and get back downstairs. And CALL ME as soon as you can! Love you!

“Love you tooooooo”

 

You slide your phone away, exit the bathroom and make your way down the stairs again. Tom is just pulling two plates out of the oven with a pink oven glove and looks completely adorable. The casserole is in a serving dish and the two candles on the table have been lit. He grins up at you.

“Perfect timing! Do you want to grab the wine?” He nods over to a bottle on the kitchen counter as he carries the plates and serving bowl over to the table.

As soon as he has popped the plates down he turns to you,

“Dinner is served!”

You grin at him as you set down the wine bottle, he still has the oven glove on. He looks down, lets out a soft laugh and simply wraps his oven glove-shod hand around your waist before pulling you in for a kiss. This one tender, sweet, soft and playful.

He pulls away and looks you right in the eye.

“I’m glad you came, really glad. And I hope you don’t think it is too forward to invite you straight here, but – well, I just wanted to have somewhere where we don’t have to keep our eyes out or dodge people. We can just chill out a bit.”

“I am really glad too. And much prefer this. It’s not too forward. It’s just nice, and feels… comfortable. And… I am starving, and that glove is really bringing out the blue in your eyes.” You start laughing

“Point taken! Let’s eat. Music?” He hops over to an ipod dock and fumbles about a bit.

“Anything you want!”

Sigur Ros comes on over the speakers, softly, and hauntingly beautiful. You sit down and Tom pours your wine and starts to serve you.

“So – have you been to Devon before?”

“Funnily enough, I have. My parents had a cottage there for a while, for holidays. I spent so many summers running around on the beach and playing with our neighbours kids. North Devon, near Bideford.”

“Ah it’s gorgeous round there – we filmed near there for the Night Manager. Near Bude. We met some pretty great people out there actually in this tiny village. Mostly fishermen – real hard-working guys actually, wouldn’t mess with them!”

Your mind wanders to the scene of Tom running on the beach as Jonathan Pine – a moment you would never date admit you rewound and replayed… multiple times… _Focus on the food Elsa_ – you swallow hard…

The food is delicious and you let Tom know. The man can knock together a serious casserole. The wine flows as freely as the conversation – you swap tips on paces you’ve visited in the UK, funny family stories from you childhood. As an only child you envy Tom’s obviously close bond with his sisters. After hours of chatting the candles are down to stubs, the air is chill and the light in the living room is really dim.

Tom gets up to take your plates away and closes the doors to the garden, drawing the curtains shut.

You get up and walk over to the counter.

“So… I was thinking… dessert, and a movie?” He says – both of you aware by this stage there is a lot of heightened buzzing emotions in the air, and neither sure what to do with it.

“Sounds perfect! What’s for pudding?”

He roots around the fridge, looking a little lost. Then emerged triumphantly with a large tub of Haagen Dasz cookies and cream.

You can’t resist his dorky face and walk over to him, reaching up to wrap your arms around his neck and enveloping him in a kiss. He swiftly responds, dumping the tub of ice cream on the counter and pulling you close, pushing you gently up against the kitchen island counter. Your lips are both sweet with wine and the heat of his body is absolutely radiating through his t-shirt.

Part of you wants to rip everything off and go for it. The cautious side of you restrains. You feel he might be the same as he pulls away, albeit reluctantly, then slowly pushes a lock of hair away from your face, looking you right in the eye – his nose inches from your face.

“Who needs ice cream – kissing you is the best dessert on earth” he breathes.

You smile back – “I couldn’t agree more”. You grab the tub from behind you and look back at him. “Two spoons please, Mr Hiddleston. And get yourself comfortable on that sofa so I can cuddle up”

He giggles and reaches behind you to pull two spoons out of the drawer then you both move over the that large, deep, plush grey sofa covered in cushions. He grabs the remote and pulls up a list of saved movies, as you get comfy amongst the nest of pillows. You settle on an old Marlon Brando classic and as the credits come up, he dims the light beside the sofa so you are in near total darkness, then gently covers your body with a wool throw as you curl up against his side.

Wrapped up in his warmth, he places gentle kisses against your hair, stroking your arm as the film begins. You can barely concentrate, your whole body alert to your sense. You sense he is also not really concentrating on the film. You realise then and there you are not likely to get even halfway through the film without dealing with the intense sexual tension in the air!


End file.
